


I Second That Emotion

by thilesluna



Series: That Lunael Collection [8]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Injuries, Past Injuries, and michael is a good, like honestly, miles is just a sad boy, with fucked up coping mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 07:09:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9537284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thilesluna/pseuds/thilesluna
Summary: Michael gets thrown in jail and meets a new friend on the inside. It only gets more complicated from there.Explicit for chapter 2!!!!!!!!!!!!





	1. Heating Up

When the LSPD officer throws him into the cell, Michael is surprised to see that there’s already someone in there. He picks himself up off the floor, shooting a glare and middle finger back at the asshole that’s walking away and laughing to himself. Michael brushes the dirt from his knees and hands and crosses over to the bench on the opposite side where the other guy is sitting. He’s more than a little bit done with being the distraction for heists, especially since he ends up in jail more often than not. At least the crew will be coming for him soon.

The space falls to silence, only the faint ringing of phones in the precinct beyond the double doors breaking it. Michael risks a glance to the guy opposite and immediately does a double take. The guy has a gash on his forehead and is holding his side tightly, but Michael can see the telltale peek of red through his fingers. He’s on his feet in an instant.

“Holy shit, are you okay?” he demands and the guy jumps, looking up from the hole he was staring in the floor. He grins but it’s a little wobbly, like he’s going for a smoothly crafted persona of charm but missing it just a bit. He’s got a nice face, warm and open even given his current situation and Michael’s heart lurches.

“m’Fine,” he says dismissively. Michael approaches him carefully and the guy seems to shrink back without realizing he’s doing it. He curls in on himself, protecting his side more. “Seriously, I’m fine,” he says again, a little more desperate. He’s treating Michael the same way Ryan did when he first joined up with the crew. Like, the more distance the better because closeness means seeing things he doesn’t want Michael to see.

“You’re _bleeding_ ,” Michael replies, disbelieving. He’s got his hands out in front of him like he’s talking to a spooked animal. “Is that—did somebody _stab_ you?”

The guy shrugs. “Occupational hazard,” he says through gritted teeth.

“The cops—they just left you in here? Do they know you’re bleeding?” There’s a difference between throwing someone in a cell with a few bumps and bruises and leaving them to bleed out on a hard wooden bench. Michael wants to punch something.

“I’m _fine_ ,” the guy says again, clearly _not_. “Just—go to your side and leave me alone.” His voice is harsh but it’s offset by the look on genuine fear on his face.

Michael scowls and turns away. The guy sighs in relief, that is until Michael starts banging on the bars of the cell and _yelling_. “Hey you fucking pieces of shit! You know this guy is _bleeding_ right? He’s got a _stab wound_! He should be in the fucking hospital not a fucking jail cell!” A hand grips his shoulder, ripping him away from the bars with surprising strength. He lands on his butt with a thud. “What the hell, dude?”

The guy glares down at him, but then all the color fades from his face and he falls to his knees, bloody hand back at his side. Michael jumps up and helps him back over to the bench. Michael sits next to him, propping him up as best he can. “They already know,” he says quietly.

“What?”

The guy laughs, dry and bitter. “The cops. I told them when they arrested me.”

Michael clenches his fists at his side and grinds his teeth. He takes a deep breath, tries to count to ten like he’s supposed to when he feels the boil of anger deep in his gut. “What. The. Fuck,” he says between breaths.

The guy shrugs. “I think their words were, _not going to waste the time on a hooker_.”

“Is that how you got—“

“You know that part of Les Mis where whatshername scratches the shit out of the dude trying to buy her?” The guy sinks a little farther down on the bench, rests his head on Michael’s shoulder. “It was something like that but the guy stabbed me for fighting back and told the cops I attacked him.”

Michael tries counting again and finds it even more useless than before. “I’m sorry,” he mutters.

“Why? Not like you’re the one who stabbed me,” the guy says, laughing again and this time it sounds more genuine. Michael tightens his grip over the guy’s shoulder.

“Doesn’t matter,” Michael growls. “I’m gonna blow up this whole goddamned precinct when I get out of here.”

“Thought you looked familiar,” the guy says. “Jones right? One of the Fakes?” Michael nods. “I saw you guys rob the Maze Bank once. That was some good shit.” He shifts and Michael catches the wince. He takes off his jacket and the t-shirt under it. The guy side-eyes him for a second. “I’m not on the clock, you know that right?”

“Shut up, idiot.” He tears the shirt into strips and folds the leftovers into a small packet. “Lift up your shirt,” he says, holding out the makeshift bandages. The guy hesitates but seems to be resigned to his fate. He tugs carefully at the stained fabric. The red has turned dark at the edges, meaning he’s been bleeding for a while. Michael frowns at that.

The guy sucks in a breath as the shirt pulls away from the deep cut on his side and the sluggish bleeding seems to speed up. “Ffffffuck,” he groans. “Fuck that’s not good, is it?”

“No, not really.” Michael presses his shirt remains to the wound and adds enough pressure that the guy cries out. “ _Shhh_ —look, uh, shit. What’s your name?”

“Miles,” the guy says through clenched teeth. Michael hears his breathing hitch when he presses even harder.

“Miles, look, we gotta stop the bleeding as best we can, right?”

“Hurts,” Miles whines, eyes squeezed shut.

“Hurting is good. Means you’re not dead,” Michael offers. It’s something Geoff always says and he thinks it certainly applies in this situation.

“I’d rather be dead,” Miles hisses back. Michael nearly laughs as he wraps the strips of fabric around Miles’ waist. The laughter sticks in his throat though, when he realizes the thick pad is already starting to stain red and it worries him. He’s gotta get them both out of here soon.

Miles has slumped back against the bench, his head resting on the concrete wall. “Hey,” Michael calls. “Miles, hey!” The man blinks his eyes open and they eventually focus on Michael. “Gotta stay awake and talk to me, buddy. Otherwise I’m going to get stupidly fucking bored in here.”

Miles blinks again, like he’s struggling to understand what Michael is asking. “Talk about what?”

Michael wracks his brain. “Did you fuck up the dick who did this to you?”

Eyes closed, Miles grins. “Black eye, broken nose. Maybe a bruised rib. Gonna have a lot to explain to his wife.”

“That’s good, man. Good for you,” Michael says. Miles’ head kind of lolls to the side and Michael panics. “Hey!” He snaps his fingers and Miles’ eyes fly open again.

“What?” he groans, sounding like a petulant child. “I’m tired, dude.”

“Hang on a little bit longer. My crew’s gonna be here any second,” Michael says, hoping for once he’s not just talking out of his ass. “What’s your favorite food?”

“Anything I can eat,” Miles shoots back, smiling slightly. “Not much choice when you’re scraping by,” he says with a shrug. Michael feels a surge of anger for Miles.

“Favorite color?”

Miles laughs and then hisses, reaching for his side with his still bloody hand. “What the fuck is this, a speed dating session?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Michael asks. He checks his watch again—the one the cops stupidly let him keep—and _honestly_ the crew should be here any second. He shrugs his jacket back on.

“You’re like, asking me first date questions,” Miles says.

“If we were going on a date, I wouldn’t ask you your favorite fucking color,” Michael spits. He gets Miles arm over his shoulder and struggles them to their feet.

“What would you ask?” Miles prompts, weight sagging more against Michael’s side than he likes. “Wait, what’re we doing?”

“I’d ask you real shit, like—fuck I don’t know,” Michael says. He drags them both back as far as he can from the bars. “And we’re getting rescued so don’t fucking pass out on me now.”

“Don’t you mean _you’re_ getting rescued?” Miles says, flatly.

“Are you fuckin’ kidding?” Michael lowers him to the floor and crouches next to him. “You really think I’d leave you in this shithole?”

Miles shrugs. “You don’t know me. I’m just some dude from the streets who has sex with people for money.” There’s a sudden commotion from the other room and Michael can hear the telltale rattle of his mini-gun, probably safe in Lindsay’s hands.

“Gotta take you with me and get you fixed up for when I can actually think of some good first date questions, yeah?”

“You askin’ me out, Jones?” Miles’ voice is going soft, a little bit too weak for Michael’s liking but there’s a soft grin on his face.

“Yeah, maybe I am,” Michael replies. Ryan bursts through the door, flinging a modified sticky bomb on the cell door and Michael throws himself over Miles before the room explodes and smoke fills the air.

 

\--------------------

Not a single person in the crew questions it when Michael and Ryan emerge from the police station with an unconscious man between them. They also don’t question when, once Miles is safe in the cargo bob, Michael turns back with a space rocket launcher and looses two rockets directly into the precinct, his face twisted in anger.

Michael is very grateful for that.

Miles is still unconscious when they get him to Caleb and Michael is held back from going into the room despite his _vehement_ protests. He doesn’t want Miles to wake up alone in a strange place. He’s probably done that enough times to last a lifetime. Larry assures him that Miles isn’t waking up any time soon with the sedatives Caleb gave him to work on the knife wound and he finally sits in one of the chairs to wait.

There’s a scuffing sound when someone falls into the chair next to him. He glances up to see Geoff, half bent with his elbows on his knees and his hands folded in front of his mouth. They sit in silence for a solid minute before Michael sighs. “What, Geoff?”

“Oh nothing, just, you know, curious about the stranger that you dragged from the jail with you and who’s currently being operated on by my medical staff,” Geoff says, glancing at Michael. “The usual.”

“I—“ Michael doesn’t really have an answer besides that there was no way in hell he was leaving Miles in there. “He needed help.”

“And we’re not the damn Red Cross,” Geoff counters. “Do you even know who this guy is?”

“His name is Miles.”

“Miles what?”

Michael hangs his head. “I don’t know.” He turns to look at Geoff who’s watching him carefully. “They left him the cell, Geoff. He was bleeding—he was _stabbed_ and they left him in the cell because he’s a prostitute.”

Geoff whistles lowly. “That explains the rockets, I guess.” He claps Michael on the back lightly. “You’ve got some fucked up protective instincts there, buddy.”

“Says the guy who leveled a building because someone shot Jack,” Michael replies, rolling his eyes. Geoff laughs and uses Michael’s shoulder to push himself into a stand.

“I said _fucked up_ , not _bad_ ,” he calls as he leaves. Michael flips him off but he can’t help the smile on his face as he settles in to wait.

\-----

It’s nearly two hours later when Caleb emerges, pulling off a bloodstained smock and throwing it at a bin near the door. He misses but doesn’t bother to pick it up, waving a tired hand at it as he makes his way over to Michael. “Still here?”

“I told you I’d be waiting,” Michael says. “So I waited.”

“He’s gonna be fine.” Caleb stifles a yawn and plops down onto a chair. “The wound was deep and he lost a lot of blood, but nothing major was nicked or cut so he’s going to make a full recovery.”

Michael nearly sighs with relief. He opens his mouth to thank Caleb but notices the odd look he’s giving him. “What?”

“How well do you know this guy?”

Michael raises his eyebrows. “I met him in the police station. Why?”

“So he’s not an old friend or anything?” Caleb asks and the way he’s looking at Michael makes him almost a little nervous.

“No, I just met him. What the fuck’s going on, Caleb?”

The doctor sighs. “He’s got some old injuries that are worrying. Some stuff that never healed right and some scars that are very concerning. I didn’t know if you knew how he got them? I’m not really—like for instance, several of his fingers were badly healed, enough that he probably had pain and limited mobility.”

“His fingers?”

“They looked like they’d been smashed or crushed with something.”

“You said _had_ ,” Michael says, watching Caleb carefully.

“I fixed them the best I could. I re-broke two of them and splinted them,” Caleb explains. “They’ll take time to heal but when they do, they should be more comfortable.”

Michael runs a hand over his face, fingers digging into his eyes underneath his glasses. His damn protective streak and Miles’ damn grin has gotten them both more trouble than it’s worth. “You know when he’s going to wake up?”

“Not for another few hours,” Caleb says. “I want him to stay here for the next few days too.”

Michael stands, crossing to the door to the patient rooms. He flashes a sad smile back to Caleb and says, “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”

\----------------

To his credit, when Miles wakes up he doesn’t freak out. That might be because of the massive amounts of painkillers flooding his system but Michael is just glad that he doesn’t try to move or sit up or anything that could pull his stitches.

In fact, the only thing Miles does is grin sleepily at him when he sees Michael leaning over the bed and says, “Hell of a first date,” before passing out again.

The next time he wakes up, he really wakes up. Michael’s half asleep in the chair pushed into the corner when he hears a groan of pain and his head shoots up. Miles has his good hand pushing at the sheets draped over his body and is reaching for his side when Michael crosses the room to stop him.

“Hey,” he says, but Miles doesn’t seem to hear him, “Hey, Miles. Stop, dude. _Miles_.”

“What?” Miles snaps, his eyes finally shooting over to Michael. He stares down at where Michael has entwined their fingers and then back up to his probably panicked expression. “Where am I? I can’t—what the fuck happened to my hand?” He struggles with the splints until Michael pins his arms to the bed.

“Miles, _stop_ ,” Michael says. He knows the look in Miles’ eyes. He wants to _run_. “Please, just stop for a second.”

“What did you _do_? Am I in a hospital? I can’t afford this,” Miles says, voice close to pleading. His body goes limp, like all the fight leaves him at once. “Why did you bring me here?”

“You’re not in a hospital,” Michael growls. He stops, takes a breath and carefully releases Miles’ arms.

“It looks like a goddamn hospital,” Miles hisses. “Being a whore on the street doesn’t exactly give you health benefits. I can’t _be_ here.” He’s angry, his mouth set in a frown and his eyebrows furrowed. Michael wants to reach out and smooth away the wrinkles.

He doesn’t though. He keeps his hands at his sides and clenches his fists. “You’re at the crew’s med facility. Our doctor patched you up.”

“I can’t pay for this,” Miles says again. “I can’t stay here and I can’t pay you back.”

Michael stares. “I’m—we’re not _asking_ you to pay, Miles.”

“I don’t like charity.”

“It’s not—Miles, it’s not charity. I just—“

Miles holds up his hand, his splinted fingers make Michael’s voice catch in his throat. “You want to save the poor, sad prostitute so you can feel better about yourself,” he says, glaring at Michael.

“No, that’s—“

“You want to be the _hero_ ,” Miles spits. His voice is bitter and he’s daring Michael to argue with him. “You’re not Richard Gere, this isn’t _Pretty Woman_.”

“I know that,” Michael says, getting angry. “I just wanted to help.”

“I don’t need—“

“You were _dying_ ,” Michael nearly yells. “You would have died in that cell and I wasn’t leaving you there. I don’t know what you want me to say! Am I supposed to apologize for giving a shit? Because I’m not fucking doing that, you fuck.”

Miles blinks and all the fight seems to leave him at once. “I’m sorry,” he mutters.

“Jesus, Miles,” Michael says, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not trying to change you or save you any more than just making sure you didn’t bleed out in a jail cell.”

The room falls into silence, the air between them awkward and still. Miles picks at the sheets with his good hand and Michael does his best to look anywhere that’s not at the bed he’s still sitting on. Miles clears his throat. “Can you—Do you think you could ask your doctor if I can go somewhere else? I don’t—hospitals aren’t really—bad memories, you know?”

Michael sighs. “I’ll ask him but I think he wants to watch you for a couple more days. And after that—“

“I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Fuck that,” Michael says, glaring. “After that you’ll crash at my place for a week or two so you don’t fuck up your stitches or your fingers. You’re not getting out of here that easy.”

“Michael—“

“Not up for debate, asshole. And I’m sure Caleb will agree.” He nods his head once like it’s settled and Miles groans.

“I’m not gonna win this fight, am I?”

“Fuck no,” Michael says with a grin. “Now go the fuck to sleep, asshole. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He gets up and makes his way to the door, stopping only when he hears Miles call his name. When he turns back, the man looks nervous, back to picking at his sheets. “Thank you,” he says and Michael smiles again.

“Don’t mention it.”

Miles lets a little grin slip onto his face and Michael realizes that he might be fucked.

\----------

Caleb does make him stay for another two days but lets him out early with the condition that he goes straight to Michael’s apartment and _stays there_ for a minimum of 14 days. Michael can tell Miles isn’t entirely pleased, but there’s an undercurrent of relief too, like he’s glad that he’s not being turned away.

Michael wonders how many times that’s happened to him. He wonders, not for the first time, what happened to Miles’ fingers or how he got the scar that runs from his left shoulder blade down to his right side. He doesn’t ask because asking about anything from before the jailbreak is a sure way to get Miles to shut down completely.

Michael can tell he’s constantly on edge just sharing the same space but they get along pretty well. Miles holes up in the guest room for the first few nights but Michael still goes in, brings him Caleb-approved foods and the meds he needs to stave off infection and finds himself spending more time than is necessary hovering around or sitting on the side of the bed and talking with Miles.

He’s got a wicked sense of humor that catches Michael off-guard and an incredible knack for telling stories that have Michael doubled over and struggling to catch his breath. He’s got no way to know if half the shit Miles says is the truth, but he enjoys listening anyway and it seems like Miles likes it just as much.

By the fourth night, Miles comes out of the room to join him in the living room for a movie and dinner. Michael doesn’t mention the stiff way Miles sits or how he winces as he shifts because he’s realized that Miles is a lot like him. He doesn’t like feeling helpless, doesn’t like being at someone else’s mercy or pitied by them. Michael decides that unless Miles is actively hurting himself irreparably, he can control his protective instincts long enough to give him the space he wants.

He wonders if control is so important to Miles because of how he doesn’t have it anywhere else in his life.

Michael hears when Miles has nightmares. The walls of his apartment aren’t that thick and he’s a light sleeper from years of the work he’s in. He never gets up but he lays there in his bed with his hands clenched and his teeth grinding when he hears Miles whimper in his sleep.

By day ten, Michael isn’t sure how it happened, but Miles has fit seamlessly into his life and his apartment. The knife wound is healing quickly; almost too quickly for Michael because once he’s well enough, Miles will leave. It sits heavy between them, settled into the space next to the carton of lo mien they decided to share, but neither of them talk about it.

On day 13, Miles finally brings it up. “So I guess I’m free to go tomorrow, right?”

Michael starts, looking up from the Food Network reality show they’ve been binge watching. He punches pause on the remote and looks to Miles. “Technically.”

Miles offers up a lopsided grin. “Happy that I’ll be out of your hair?” Michael swallows thickly but doesn’t say anything. Miles’ grin fades slightly and then comes back too wide to be real. “I’m sure sharing the apartment with me must have sucked. Now you can have some peace and quiet.”

 _No!_ Michael wants to yell. _I don’t like the quiet! I like waking up to hear you singing in the shower. I like making stupid jokes with you and I like seeing you at my kitchen table in the morning._ He settles for a shrug of his shoulder. “If you want to stay a few extra days that’d be fine. Whatever you want, dude.” He’s trying for casual but the way Miles eyes narrow makes him think he missed his mark.

“I don’t do char—“

Michael plays with the remote. “I know. It’s not. I just—maybe just until you go back to Caleb for your fingers?”

Miles considers it, still surveying Michael with a look that screams suspicion. “When’s that supposed to be?”

“Thursday,” Michael answers. It only gives him 2 extra days with Miles but he’s _selfish_ and will take anything he can get.

Miles sighs. He looks small, his massive stature dwarfed by the insecurity that makes his shoulders hunch and how he curls in on himself. It’s something Michael has caught a couple times in the nearly two weeks they’ve been sharing his apartment. It happens when Miles thinks he’s overstepping his boundaries or when he makes a joke about staying. “Are you sure?”

“Dude,” Michael says, fixing him with a _look_. The one he stole from his mother back in Jersey that says, _you fuckin’ idiot_.

Miles laughs and the smiles that pulls at his lips is _real_ and it makes Michael’s face heat. “Okay, jeeze! I’ll stay!” Michael nods his head and moves to restart the show. “Just until the appointment, though,” Miles adds and Michael has to fight to keep his face impassive.

\---------

Outside of Caleb’s office, Michael waits as patiently as he can. Which is not at all. Larry has to tell him to sit at least four times and finally just gives up and goes back to his work and does his best to ignore Michael’s restless pacing. Miles emerges an hour later and Caleb claps him on the back while informing him of his next check up. Michael can see the flash of uncertainty on Miles’ face that makes him think that Miles has no intention of returning and he has to stop himself from jumping in.

“He’s all set,” Caleb says. “He finished his 10 days of antibiotics?” Michael nods quickly and Caleb smiles. “I figured he wouldn’t get away with not, especially living with you.”

 _Living with_.

Not staying with, _living with_. Michael hates how much he likes the way that sounds. He looks over to Miles who rubs at the back of his neck uncomfortably.

The drive back to his apartment is sufficiently awkward.

\-------

From the moment his door shuts behind him, Michael can tell something is wrong. Miles is standing in the middle of his living room, just _standing_ there. He’s not animated like he normally is, he’s not cracking jokes or trying to make Michael laugh. He’s standing but he looks _lost_.

Michael crosses the room to him, rests a careful hand on his arm. “Miles?”

His eyes snap to Michael’s and there’s a beat and then—

Michael’s back is up against his breakfast bar and Miles’ mouth is hot on his and _god_ , he’s wanted this but something is _wrong_. He pushes gently at Miles’ shoulders but the man doesn’t move back. He makes a noise low in his throat that sounds like a disagreement and Michael pushes harder because the frantic, desperate kiss tastes sour. Miles moves back with the push this time and his eyes are wide, almost like he’s afraid but he steps back into Michael’s space almost right away, reaching to pin his hips against the table and his hands are _shaking_.

“Miles—jesus, _stop_ ,” Michael says, sidestepping away. “What—“

“You want me, don’t you?” Miles asks, but the way the words fall from his mouth sound like an accusation. “I’ve seen you. I know what it looks like when men want me.” He’s staring at Michael with his chin jut forward in a challenge.

Michael swallows, runs a hand through his hair. “I do. Christ, of course I do but I feel like you—it doesn’t seem like you want _me_. Not really, anyway.”

“You don’t know me,” Miles snaps. “You don’t know what I want.”

“You’re right,” Michael says quietly. “But I know that your hands are fucking _shaking_ and you look _scared_. I want you, Miles, but not—fuck, not like this.”

“Fuck you,” Miles says. “Fuck you, Jones. Why won’t you—just let me do this! Am I not—” _Good enough_ , he was going to say but he stops himself, Michael can see the way he does like it’s a physical thing. He steps forward again and Michael backs away. Miles’ eyes go desperate but they’re tinged with anger. His demeanor switches suddenly, snapping from the wild look to carefully schooled and nearly _sultry_. “You can fuck me if you want,” he says, dropping his voice low. Michael shudders at the change and the way it alters Miles’ whole personality. “Or I can blow you. What do you want?”

It clicks suddenly and he feels sick. “You don’t want me,” Michael breathes. “You’re trying to pay me back.”

Miles freezes. “No.”

“Yes, you are!” Michael accuses. “You—Miles, I want you but never like this. This isn’t _right_.”

“This is all I _have_!” Miles yells, throwing his arms out to his sides. “I don’t have anything else! It’s all I’m fucking good for.”

They stand there, the mere feet between them feels like miles. Michael watches the pieces of Miles break, watches him collapse in on himself the way he’s been avoiding for the last two weeks. “I don’t want _just_ that part of you, Miles.”

“Michael…”

“If that’s all you’re offering, I don’t fucking want it. I want it _all_ ,” he declares, finally saying what’s been on the tip of his tongue, tucked into his cheek for _days_. “I want the stupid jokes and the sarcasm and the _nightmares_.” Miles blanches at that but Michael soldiers on. “You’re hot and _god,_ I want to fuck you but not like this.”

He sees it happening before it really does and he’s closed the distance between them before Miles’ knees even hit the carpet. “Michael—“ His voice is muffled where Michael tucks his face into his neck.

“You have so much more to offer, Miles,” he says fiercely, and Miles makes a noise. “And I’m gonna be here to get every single piece of it if you decide to offer it to me. I’ll be waiting.”

They sit like that for a long time, until Michael’s feet are asleep and Miles’ fingers in his shirt go limp as he drifts off to sleep but he _stays_ and Michael decides that’s a good place to start.


	2. Getting Warmer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they have sex and a LOT of feelings

The first few weeks are rough. Miles, though he stays, does pretty much everything he can to avoid Michael in the apartment. Part of it is embarrassment, Michael realizes, but part of it seems to be that he’s just unsure of what it’s like to have no expectation of _payment_ for being allowed to stay. When Michael thinks about it, he feels a spike of anger over the life Miles must have been living.

He doesn’t baby Miles; doesn’t bring him food in bed or sit with him for hours at a time and not do his own work with the crew. For the first week, he half expects Miles to be gone when he comes back from the penthouse or a job. He doesn’t think about how happy he is to see Miles sitting on his couch, even if he gets up and goes back to his room as soon as Michael comes in.

It gets better though. By the third week they start eating dinner together. Miles sets the table and Michael cooks. It’s all grossly domestic and there’s a warmth that curls in Michael’s belly when Miles grins at him over the lip of his glass. Sometimes they sit together and watch a movie and it’s almost like before the argument. They gravitate into each other’s space easily. Miles often falls asleep on Michael’s shoulder and he’s just sat until the credits rolled and the DVD menu came crackling back to life because he couldn’t bear to disturb him.

Between them, they develop a rhythm. Michael wakes up early, hits the gym on the bottom floor of his apartment building and then comes back up to start a pot of coffee. While he’s in the shower, Miles makes something for them to have for breakfast and does the dishes from the previous night’s meal. When Michael emerges, hair still damp and skin flushed from the heat of the shower, his coffee is waiting for him exactly the way he likes it. Miles is at the table playing on his phone or reading the paper that Michael grabbed from downstairs. He’s had to stop himself from going up behind Miles and pressing a kiss into his hair more than once.

He thinks Miles feels the same way. He catches a look from him every once in a while that’s something torn between curiosity and desire and it makes his face heat. When they seem to be getting closer to what Michael hopes is the inevitable, it’s like Miles realizes it too and pulls back again.

Despite living together for over a month, Michael feels like there’s something that Miles is holding back. There are times when Miles withdraws in on himself and won’t leave his room for a whole day. Other times, he disappears for an hour or two and it takes everything in Michael not to call Matt Bragg to keep tabs on him. Miles still has nightmares, some nights are worse than others. If he has a particularly bad one, Michael finds himself sitting on the side of Miles’ bed, running a careful hand through his hair.

He never brings it up the next day and so neither does Michael.

The thing Michael is most sure of is that Miles needs _trust_. He needs to give it and to get it. He needs space and freedom but also to know that there’s someone there who has his back. It’s probably something he picked up when he was on his own. Michael wonders if Miles can count the number of people he really trusts on one hand—he also wonders, selfishly, if he is one of them.

It’s another month before anything changes. Michael, who’s never really been one for routine, finds himself craving the simplicity of seeing Miles’ face first in the morning and having his warm coffee pressed into his waiting hands. Even the routine of holding himself back from snaking an arm over Miles shoulder or around his waist is comforting at this point.

He goes out on a job and very predictably, it all goes to shit.

Michael ends up with a graze to the shoulder, a sprained ankle, and a minor concussion on top of it when one of the LSPD officers gets a lucky shot at him where he’s perched on the roof next to the bank. All things considered, he’s pretty goddamned fortunate that the fall from the building didn’t break his fucking neck.

Still, he doesn’t get back to his apartment until well after 2 AM and he’s also not particularly prepared for what greets him.

The second he throws open the door, Miles is crossing the room, his eyes wide and scared. He stops two feet from Michael and his hands are shaking again. Michael reaches out a hand, frowning. “Are you okay?”

Miles chokes out something that could be a laugh but falls closer to sounding like a sob. “Am _I_ okay?” He takes in the gauze wrapped around Michael’s shoulder and the careful way he’s standing. His eyes land on the bruise that covers a good portion of the side of his face. “Jesus, Michael—are you—you didn’t come home and I thought—“

Michael wants to smack himself. He didn’t even think to have one of the guys let Miles know what happened. He’s such an asshole. “Oh god, I’m a fucking asshole. I didn’t—I should have called or something. I’m sorry.”

“Stop that,” Miles growls. He’s got a hand on Michael’s good arm. _Huh,_ he thinks, _when did that happen?_

“Stop what?” He blinks at Miles, trying to decipher exactly why he’s mad.

“Stop apologizing to me and asking me if I’m alright! Look at you!” His hand tightens and he steps even closer. Michael swallows thickly; the space between them is burning, nearly suffocating. It’s too much and not enough at the same time. Michael glances up at him, his eyes searching Miles’ face.

“I’m okay,” he says quietly. Miles makes a noise that’s torn between distressed and disbelieving. “I am,” Michael insists. "I’m okay.”

Miles’ fingertips are cool when they brush against the heated, swollen bruise on Michael’s face. He closes his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

"Good," Miles breathes and then they're _kissing_ and _god_ , Michael could get used to this. Miles kisses him like drowning, like if he stops Michael will disappear. It's the polar opposite of their first kiss. It's slow and patient despite the way Michael feels like he's burning up from the inside. The first time Miles had been falling apart, had tasted like desperation and fear. This time, oh _hell_ , the only thing Michael can think is that Miles feels like home.

Michael's back hits the door gently, cushioned by Miles' arm. He doesn't know when he got his fingers in the fabric of Miles’ t-shit— _his_ t-shirt that Miles is wearing that’s just a _little_ too tight, holy _shit_ —but he’s pulling him in, keeping them pressed together. His ankle chooses then to give out and Miles’ hands are rough on his sides, holding him up. “Bedroom,” Michael gasps. Miles just grunts, lowers his lips to Michael’s neck, noses under his jaw to drop wet, sucking kisses against his skin. “Now, Miles, _jesus_.”

It’s a hand in Miles’ hair, tugging gently that finally gets him to move. He pries himself away but bends to scoop Michael up bridal style. Michael shouts but it turns into shaking laughter when Miles shoots him a lopsided grin. “Anything for you, m’lady.”

“You fucking asshole,” Michael says, but he wraps an arm over Miles’ shoulders and rests his face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the smell of his own laundry detergent and the cheap aftershave Miles insisted on buying. They end up in Michael’s room. Miles sets him down on his bed and leans over to kiss him again. It’s different, more confident but somehow less heat, like he’s stoking the coals of what he knows will grow to an inferno. They part but Michael holds Miles there with a hand on his collar. “Miles, are you—“

“If you ask me if I’m sure I want this,” Miles says, eyes still closed. He opens them and looks Michael dead in the eye. “I’m probably going to strangle you.”

Michael bites back a laugh because this is _serious_. “Miles I’ve wanted you since—hell since I brought you back to my apartment but I need to know, to be _sure_ that you want it too.” His thumb traces the swell of Miles cheek and Miles face splits into a grin.

“I _want_ you,” he says. “I want to kiss you and fuck you and hell, I want to wake up next to you and suffer through your morning breath.” He leans in and bumps his forehead softly against Michael’s and Michael feels like his blood is racing in his veins. “How can I make you believe me?”

He smiles. “You can start by kissing me again.”

Miles takes his hand and presses a kiss onto his bruised knuckles. “Like this?”

“Mmm,” Michael hums. “That’s nice, but not quite what I had in mind.” Miles opens his hand and presses another onto his palm. “Not there either.”

“Guess I’ll have to keep trying,” Miles says, his eyes glinting in the light of the lamp on Michael’s bedside table. He urges Michael further up on the bed before crawling over him to kiss just above his left eye. “Am I getting warmer?”

“A little bit. You’ve got shitty aim,” Michael laughs. Miles tuts and leans in again, his lips catching Michael’s chin. “Warmer.”

“Excellent,” he coos. Another kiss falls on Michael’s cheek and then easy, so careful against the tight skin of the bruise near his right temple. Miles pulls back just enough to catch Michael’s eye and his breath catches in his throat. Miles is looking at him with eyes wide and soft, taking him in like he’s trying his best to burn this moment into his memory.

“Colder,” Michael whispers and then he opens beneath the press of Miles’ mouth against his. His hands slide through the mess of Miles’ hair, tugging his head to a better angle in an attempt to deepen the kiss. He likes the way Miles moves with him and he likes the noise that rumbles from Miles’ throat every time he tightens his fingers in his hair.

“How was that?” Miles says when they part to catch their breath.

“On fuckin’ fire,” Michael replies with a grin. He grinds his hips up, ignoring the twinge in his ankle and Miles makes punched out sound.

“You’re going to kill me,” he whines. “I’m going to die.”

“Not before you fuck me, hopefully,” Michael says seriously. Miles cocks an eyebrow at him and he can’t keep the smile from pulling at his lips. He can feel the hesitation though and it makes him pause. “Are you okay? Because we don’t have—“

“Oh hell no,” Miles interrupts. “Hell no we are not _not_ fucking tonight. I’ve been thinking about it for _weeks_.”

“Then what’s—You have to tell me what you want, Miles,” Michael says. He leans up to kiss the tip of Miles’ nose. “This is just as much about you as it is about me. I want—I need you to be in control, yeah?”

“Michael—“

He shakes his head with a wry smile. “What do _you_ want, Miles?”

Michael can tell when it sinks in for Miles what he’s offering. For the two months they’ve lived together, Michael has learned enough to know what it means to give up his control and trust in Miles to make this choice. It’s a choice that was never Miles’ to make before and so it _needs_ to be his here and now. Miles’ face goes soft, the corners of his mouth ticking up as he looks down at Michael.

“I want to ride you but I want you to open me up, like this. Face to face,” Miles says finally, his cheeks going red. “I want to see you.” Michael grins and pulls Miles down for a kiss.

“Deal,” he says. “Now lets get our fucking clothes off.” Miles throws his head back and laughs and it’s like goddamn music and every other cliché that Michael has ever heard all at once. Miles laughs with his whole body, his face scrunches up and his mouth goes wide in a way that could only be described as utterly _joyous_. He shimmies down the bed and starts stripping his clothes. Michael sits up and wiggles out of his jeans and his boxers, careful of his ankle. His shirt goes next, the sleeve stretched wide to fit around the gauze. By the time he whips it off his head, Miles is crawling back onto the bed and leaning over to dig around in Michael’s beside drawer. “Back left corner,” he calls as he maneuvers himself to lean against the pillows up at the headboard. Miles throws him a grin over his shoulder, his hand emerging with a bottle of lube and foil-wrapped condom held aloft like a fucking trophy.

Michael catches a glimpse of a long scar running from Miles’ left shoulder to the bottom right side of his back and he nearly reaches out to touch it before thinking better of it. It’ll have to wait for another day when Miles feels like sharing because Michael’s not about to ruin this moment, no matter how angry he is that someone could do that to him.

Miles scoots up the bed until he’s straddling Michael’s hips. He presses the bottle into Michael’s waiting hands and plants one of his on the headboard. “I don’t—“ he starts, biting his lip and looking unsure. “I don’t _normally_ have someone else do this for me. I learned the hard way it’s better to be thorough and do it yourself so you don’t get hurt.” Michael runs a hand over Miles’ side, feels the anger flare again. “But I trust you,” Miles goes on and the anger vanishes because the way Miles says _trust_ sounds like something bigger.

“Yeah,” Michael says. “Me too—I mean I trust you too.” The air feels heavy between them and Miles is looking at him like he’s a problem he can’t quite figure out. “This is about you—well, you having control. Tell me to stop and I’ll fucking stop, okay? Tell me to keep going and I will. I wanna make you feel good.” Michael flicks open the bottle and pours some lube on his fingers. Miles brushes his thumb against the hair right above his ear and grins.

The angle is a little awkward but when Miles sinks down a little more, Michael gets an arm wrapped around his torso and presses carefully against him. Miles’ hips stutter forward, dragging his cock perfectly against Michael’s. “More,” he mutters, “Come on, Michael.”

Michael does as he said, gives Miles exactly what he asks for every time he asks. He works one finger in and out, maddeningly slow and careful until Miles grips him by the hair and tells him he needs more. Two fingers and Michael’s still careful, still so easy that Miles nearly growls at him because “It’s not enough. _Please_ , Michael.” By the time he’s worked in a third, Miles is making punched out sounds and pushing back against his hand, his forehead slick with sweat. Michael twists his wrist and Miles’ back arches and he groans, “Do that again, _fuck_.” Michael grins wickedly and does, over and over as Miles grinds back, his cock leaking between them.

He presses his face forward into Miles’ chest; his mouth pressing kisses to the skin even as Miles’ chest hair tickles his cheeks. Miles’ fingers are tangled in his hair, holding him in place while he moves against Michael’s hand. “You sound so pretty when you moan like that, Miles,” Michael says and Miles’ breath hitches. “God, you’re so fucking hot. You’re just _fucking_ yourself on my hand like you can’t help it. Does it feel good?”

“Yeah,” Miles sighs. “Feels so good.” He tugs gently on the hair at the base of Michael’s skull to pull him away and to get his attention. “Want you to fuck me, though,” he says, staring down at Michael. “Please.”

Michael gets a hand on the base of Miles’ neck and pulls him in for a kiss as he withdraws his fingers. Miles plucks the condom from the bedspread and tears it open, and sits back to roll it over Michael. It’s the first time he’s been touched since this started and he can’t help the moan that tears it’s way out of his throat. Miles is quick, thankfully, spreading lube over his dick and adjusting to line up. “Are you sure—“

Miles laughs. “I’m ready, I promise. I’m very seriously _good_ ,” he says and lowers himself down.

It takes pretty much all of Michael’s willpower not to buck his hips up. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he grunts. “Miles, jesus, you’re gonna kill me.” Miles takes a shaky breath when he’s fully seated, his fingers gripping into the headboard behind Michael.

“Mmm,” Michael hums, distractedly. He swivels his hips just so and Michael’s hands fly to them, grip bruising for an instant before he forces himself to calm down. “Like it,” Miles mutters. “Like it a little rough. Michael, _please_ —“ and Michael digs his fingers in again, encouraging Miles to keep moving.

It stays slow and easy like that for longer than Michael can count. He’s burning from the inside out, every place he touches Miles feels like flames licking his skin. They’re both slick with sweat now and every time Miles raises himself just to slowly lower back down, the air leaves Michael’s lungs like he was punched in the chest. His stomach tightens and he knows he’s spiraling closer and closer to the edge. Miles hands are in his hair, pulling at his curls and bending his head back so he can kiss him, wet and messy in the best way.

“Fuck me,” Miles mutters against his lips. His voice is rough and fucked-out sounding; it’s fucking music to Michael’s ears and his hips thrust up. Miles nods dumbly, his eyes squeezing shut. “Yeah, Michael, c’mon. I want it.”

He wraps his arm around Miles then, holds him steady so he can set his feet—his ankle protests but he can’t find it in himself to give a shit—and piston himself into the heat of Miles’ body. He can feel the way Miles’ dick is rubbing against him and it’s leaking onto his stomach. Michael uses his free hand to adjust his position, just to re-angle his body and Miles goes stiff, crying out. “Fuck, again,” he begs. “Right there, Michael. _Fuck me_.”

It’s over relatively quickly after that. Michael does exactly what Miles asks, fucks him as he gets a lube-slick hand on his dick and moves in time with his own thrusts. Miles shakes apart, scrabbling for something to hold on to and finding Michael’s shoulders, fingers digging in to the gauze and making Michael hiss. Miles mutters apologies and leans down to kiss him, his hips stuttering, caught between fucking forward into Michael’s hand and back onto his dick.

“Come on, Miles,” Michael says between biting faint pink marks onto Miles’ collarbones and neck. “ _Come_.”

And Miles _does_.

Michael’s thighs are shaking but when he feels Miles tighten around him, his pace falters and he thrusts up hard, twisting his hips and pressing in as deep as he can. The shudders through Miles’ body send him crashing over the edge and he bites down _hard_ on Miles’ shoulder as he comes, filling the condom.

They stay there for probably too long, the sweat and come cooling between them. Miles lifts himself free of Michael’s cock only to collapse onto the bed next to him. He makes an annoyed sound and digs under his body, coming out with the bottle of lube and tossing it at Michael’s chest. Michael huffs out a laugh and throws it in the general direction of his bedside table.

He pulls the condom off, tying it and stumbling over to the attached bathroom to throw it away and grab a wet cloth. Miles is still just lying there when he gets back and he snorts. “You alive down there?” he asks, pushing at Miles’ shoulder to get him to turn onto his back. Michael wipes him down carefully, kissing his nose when he finishes. Miles opens one eye to look at him. “I’m dead. You killed me,” he complains.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Michael laughs. “You’re clearly still alive enough to bitch about it so I’m guessing you’re fine.”

“Don’t be mean,” Miles whines. “I just got all coherent thought fucked out of me. I need a minute to recover.”

Michael crawls onto the bed and kisses Miles on the forehead. “Take all the time you need,” he says softly, “Stay a while.” And hell, he _means_ it because Miles can stay forever if he wants. Miles blinks up at him, eyes soft and vulnerable in a way that makes Michael swallow thickly and his heart race.

“Yeah,” Miles says, voice quiet, “I think I will.”


End file.
